Hogfather - Terry Pratchett [50]
“Tell me, Senior Wrangler, we never invited any women to the Hogswatchnight Feast, did we?”
“Of course not, Archchancellor,” said the Senior Wrangler. He looked up in the dust-covered rafters, wondering what had caught Ridcully’s eye. “Good heavens, no. They’d spoil everything. I’ve always said so.”
“And all the maids have got the evening off until midnight?”
“A very generous custom, I’ve always said,” said the Senior Wrangler, feeling his neck crick.
“So why, every year, do we hang a damn great bunch of mistletoe up there?”
The Senior Wrangler turned in a circle, still staring upward.
“Well, er…it’s…well, it’s…it’s symbolic, Archchancellor.”
“Ah?”
The Senior Wrangler felt that something more was expected. He groped around in the dusty attics of his education.
“Of…the leaves, d’y’see…they’re symbolic of…of green, d’y’see, whereas the berries, in fact, yes, the berries symbolize…symbolize white. Yes. White and green. Very…symbolic.”
He waited. He was not, unfortunately, disappointed.
“What of?”
The Senior Wrangler coughed.
“I’m not sure there has to be an of,” he said.
“Ah? So,” said the Archchancellor, thoughtfully, “it could be said that the white and green symbolize a small parasitic plant?”
“Yes, indeed,” said the Senior Wrangler.
“So mistletoe, in fact, symbolizes mistletoe?”
“Exactly, Archchancellor,” said the Senior Wrangler, who was now just hanging on.
“Funny thing, that,” said Ridcully, in the same thoughtful tone of voice. “That statement is either so deep it would take a lifetime to fully comprehend every particle of its meaning, or it is a load of absolute tosh. Which is it, I wonder?”
“It could be both,” said the Senior Wrangler desperately.
“And that comment,” said Ridcully, “is either very perceptive, or very trite.”
“It might be bo—”
“Don’t push it, Senior Wrangler.”
There was a hammering on the outer door.
“Ah, that’ll be the wassailers,” said the Senior Wrangler, happy for the distraction. “They call on us first every year. I personally have always liked ‘The Lilywhite Boys,’ you know.”
The Archchancellor glanced up at the mistletoe, gave the beaming man a sharp look, and opened the little hatch in the door.
“Well, now, wassailing you fellows—” he began. “Oh. Well, I must say you might’ve picked a better time…”
A hooded figure stepped through the wood of the door, carrying a limp bundle over its shoulder.
The Senior Wrangler stepped backward quickly.
“Oh…no, not tonight…”
And then he noticed that what he had taken for a robe had lace around the bottom, and the hood, while quite definitely a hood, was nevertheless rather more stylish than the one he had first mistaken it for.
“Putting down or taking away?” said Ridcully.
Susan pushed back her hood.
“I need your help, Mr. Ridcully,” she said.
“You’re…aren’t you Death’s granddaughter?” said Ridcully. “Didn’t I meet you a few—”
“Yes,” sighed Susan.
“And…are you helping out?” said Ridcully. His waggling eyebrows indicated the slumbering figure over her shoulder.
“I need you to wake him up,” said Susan.
“Some sort of miracle, you mean?” said the Senior Wrangler, who was a little behind.
“He’s not dead,” said Susan. “He’s just resting.”
“That’s what they all say,” the Senior Wrangler quavered.
Ridcully, who was somewhat more practical, lifted the oh god’s head. There was a groan.
“Looks a bit under the weather,” he said.
“He’s the God of Hangovers,” said Susan. “The Oh God of Hangovers.”
“Really?” said Ridcully. “Never had one of those myself. Funny thing, I can drink all night and feel as fresh as a daisy in the morning.”
The oh god’s eyes opened. Then he soared toward Ridcully and started beating him on the chest with both fists.
“You utter, utter bastard! I hate you hate you hate you hate